Sign of Fear
by Jay'sWings
Summary: Post RF: John is forced to deal with Sherlock's sudden arrival from the grave rather quickly, since there is a string of murders right after the detective returns. The duo are helped along the way of this strange puzzle by John's new friend Mary, but something isn't quite right. She reminds them of someone they know, a psychotic criminal mastermind who might not be dead after all.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own any of this! Sherlock and its characters do not belong to me and belong to their rightful and respected owners! Enjoy!

* * *

**_Chapter 1-__Sign of Change_  
**

_Stallion's Pub. 7:00 tomorrow night. Come John. _

John stared at the small, glowing screen in his hand, sighing as he read the short and rather curt message. He knew who it was from without having to read further. The text belonged to Detective Inspector Lestrade, or as John now knew him, betrayer number one. It had been Lestrade's doubt that had hurt John the most, and the doctor knew that Sherlock had been at least surprised by the inspector's betrayal, even if he didn't show it. Sherlock never showed any of the pain John knew he was feeling when the fall happened.

At the onslaught of memories, John shuddered, and typed a message back to the detective and sent it.

_No._

John went to go sit down, but within seconds his phone had lit up again. Looking at the new message, he got even more agitated.

_I'll arrest you if you don't._

Typing furiously, John pressed 'send' and prayed Lestrade wouldn't respond. He didn't want to see the detective again, not when he knew that Lestrade didn't trust the one person that John revered more than anyone else.

_You can't do that. I have nothing to say to you Lestrade, you made your position quite clear when you arrested Sherlock and threatened to arrest me. You didn't trust in Sherlock, therefore I don't trust in you. _

After this last message, John's phone didn't light up immediately. John held the device in his hand, glaring at it, almost daring it to light up with another message, but the screen remained black. His anger turning into exhaustion, John leaned into the chair and looked around his flat.

He was still living at 221 B Baker Street, even though he had insisted in the beginning to Mrs. Hudson that he would be moving out. John had tried to stay at a hotel one night after the fall, but he had been plagued by nightmares the entire night; nightmares where Sherlock was falling over and over and as fast as John ran, every time he was too late to save his friend. After that night, John had moved back into 221 and had stayed there, trying to go on existing without his other half. His gun had looked promising at times, but John knew Sherlock would be furious if he killed himself. So for the past six months, John had lived in 221 B, working at the clinic, eating, and sleeping, almost as if he had put his life on auto pilot.

John's phone finally lit up again, interrupting his train of thought.

_John, please. I feel terrible and it's killing me not to apologize to you face to face about this. Don't you think Sherlock would have wanted you to be the better person?_

Looking at the text, part of John's initial anger reappeared, and without thinking, he fired off a reply.

_You know nothing about Sherlock._

As soon as he had sent the message, John's rage turned into pity. Sherlock would have indeed wanted him to forgive Lestrade and move forward, even if the detective had betrayed them both. Lestrade did seem to be terribly ashamed of myself, as John looked through his phone at the previous messages sent by the detective throughout the six months after the fall, to which all of them, John had replied 'no' to or not replied at all.

_John, I know you're hurting right now, can we talk?_

_No._

_John, let's get drinks and talk about this, I want to apologize._

_John, we need to talk. Come have drinks with me, please._

_No._

Sighing, John sent another text.

_I'll be there._

A tear rolled down John's cheek as he looked at the violin placed on the chair next to him, beginning to collect dust. The doctor had done his best to push the fall and the raw pain that was coupled with it, out of his mind, but he had bad days. This so happened to be one of them. With the fall fresh in his mind from texting the Detective Inspector, John crumpled into his seat, tears beginning to streak his cheeks. As his sight of the violin became blurred, John whispered into the desolating silence around him.

"I miss you Sherlock. Come back. Please, come back..."

* * *

The next morning, John awoke to find himself still in the chair, with a rather stiff neck. Looking at the clock, which read seven o'clock in the morning, John sighed when he realized his engagement with the Detective Inspector in twelve hours. Slowly getting up, John made his way over to his room, pausing at Sherlock's door. He tried to hold back, but couldn't, and ended up opening the door, checking to make sure the detective wasn't there, like he had done every morning since the fall. When he saw the empty bed and the even emptier room, John's shoulders slumped and he went into his room to get changed.

An hour later he was at the clinic, getting his office ready. His body hurt from sleeping in the chair, but he pushed through the stiffness as he walked around the office, waiting for his first patient. Sarah had said good morning and had given him a small, hesitant smile like she always did. Originally she had been furious with him when he had broken up with her, but for the past six months she had been doing her best to be sweet around John, even though he knew she believed that Sherlock was a fake.

The door opened just a crack, and a pale, blond woman poked her head into the room.

"Dr. Watson?" she asked softly. Whirling around, John nodded and ushered her in. Opening the door and scooting into the room, the woman gave John a small smile and sat down. After closing the door, John grabbed his clip board and sat opposite from her.

"Good morning, Ms...Morstan," John read. The woman nodded and smiled wider, holding out her hand.

"Nice to meet you, Dr. Watson."

Taking her hand, John noticed a small golden bracelet around her wrist. It was a simple chain bracelet, except for on top there were two diamond m's next to each other.

"Pretty bracelet," John commented, hoping his compliment didn't sound forced.

"Oh, thank you, it's my initials," Ms. Morstan explained. "Sorry, I should have introduced myself, I'm Mary Morstan."

"Ah yes, Mary," John looked at his sheet. "It says your here."

"Oh yes, I suppose it does," Mary replied.

"And you've come in today for, just a check up?" John looked back at Mary, who nodded again.

"Alright well, let's get started then."

Most of the check up went on without excitement. John checked Mary's eyes, ears, nose, weight, and all other aspects. She was fine, no health issues whatsoever, and in good shape. John occasionally noticed Mary looking at him out of the corner of her eye, but he paid no attention to it. He just wanted to get this day at the clinic over with so he could meet Lestrade and be done with the whole ordeal.

John had just finished asking Mary if she had any health questions, to which Mary replied no, and he was about to get up to show her out when she asked,

"So how are you, Dr. Watson?"

Looking from Mary to the door and back to Mary again, John shook his head confused by the question.

"I'm sorry, what?"

Mary gazed at him with a knowing smile and repeated herself.

"How are you, Dr. Watson? It's been six months."

John was hit with a wall of pain as he understood what Mary was talking about. Sucking in a breath, he nodded to Mary and got up before he elicited any other reaction. Opening the door, he motioned for her to leave, not wanting to talk about it. Getting up, Mary gathered her things, but approached John, not the door.

"Not to worry John, I suspect him to be home soon," Mary said this like she was telling John that he would receive a package any day now. Clenching his fists and trying not to be rude, John asked,

"What do you mean?"

"I know you believe he was real, John," Mary explained. "As do I. I understand him, I know his methods, and I know that someone like him would have thought ahead and planned for the events that occurred."

"Oh you _understand_ him?" John asked incredulously, unable to hide the skepticism in his voice. Sighing but still smiling, Mary continued,

"It is obvious Moriarty made Sherlock jump, because Sherlock's suicide would have completed Moriarty's plan. Still, Sherlock would have figured it out and therefore would have found a way to escape death. I told you, I think like Sherlock."

"Really, you think just like him?" John hissed, bewildered and angered, realizing that this woman was just playing with him. He was so frustrated with people, giving him pity or hatred or confusion because of his faithfulness to Sherlock. No one understood Sherlock like John did, so why did they pretend like they did?

Silence ensued after John's snap, until Mary whispered quietly, "Do you like your new tea?"

"What?!" John asked, exasperated, now completely confused.

"Your new tea," Mary spoke. "Your lips are slightly black around the edges and your breath smells of tea, but the brown marks that are very light on your lips that could only come from drinking the same brand of tea every day for a long time suggest that you don't usually drink the tea you drank today. The wrinkles in your pants suggest you've worn them before without washing them, and there is a bulge in your left pocket with the corner of a receipt poking out. So, you went to the store a couple days ago and bought new tea. Do you like it?"

Shocked, John dropped Mary's file, his mouth wide open. The papers collided to the ground, but neither of them noticed. John was still gaping at Mary, who looked at him sheepishly, before handing him a small piece of paper.

"In case you ever want to talk," Mary smiled once more, and then scooted out of the door. Looking at the paper, John gasped as he saw the number scrawled across it. He stuffed the paper into his pocket, and with Mary still fresh in his mind, he bent down to pick up the papers, stopping when he picked up the paper with Mary's picture on it. Her blonde hair and pale skin didn't match her brown eyes, but John wasn't focused on their color. He could see that look in Mary's eyes, _the_ look. The look of mischief, the look that told the world that the eyes that held that look knew anything and everything.

While John was looking at the picture, something Mary said popped into his mind, and after this encounter, he couldn't decide if he believed it or not.

_Not to worry John, I suspect him to be home soon._

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So glad to have finally started this! Let me know what you think please, and if you like where this story is going! Next chappie has Lestrade, John, and...Sherlock!


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own any of this! Sherlock and its characters belong to its rightful and respected owners! Enjoy!

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**Ch. 2-Sign of Loyalty**

"Well Detective Inspector, what do you make of this?"

Lestrade stood in the bedroom of a Ms. Aurelia Ordena, completely stunned. Standing next to him were Anderson and Donovan, with equally shocked expressions on their faces. The only person in the room that wasn't utterly dumbfounded was the man who called them to Ms. Ordena's house; her neighbor, a scruffy looking fellow with a full beard and thick eyebrows who went by the name Colonel. Colonel was merely looking at the three expectantly, as if any minute one of them would snap out of their stupor.

The woman in question was lying flat on her back against the ceiling above them, with an expression of pure terror on her face. This in of itself was enough to startle Lestrade, but what really confused the Detective Inspector and everyone else, was there appeared to be nothing holding the woman to the ceiling. She appeared to be just lying there, as if she was lying on the ground. There was no rope, no glue, nothing. The woman was simply lying flat on the ceiling, with an expression that suggested that she, while still alive, also didn't have any idea of how she was clinging there.

"What do you think Detective Inspector?" the Colonel asked. "She's been like this for what I can only assume to be a day or so. I got worried when she didn't go out to garden yesterday or this morning, because she treats that garden like her own child. So I came in around an hour ago, say nine o'clock, and found her here, exactly like she is now."

Lestrade looked to the Colonel and back to Ms. Ordena, finally looking at the ground and putting his face in his hands.

"Well, I guess we'll have to get her down first," he muttered through his fingers, and motioned for Donovan to go find a ladder. Rolling her eyes, the Sergeant left the room in search of one, while Lestrade looked to Anderson, who was still looking at the ceiling with wide eyes.

"Well don't stand there all day," the detective inspector snapped. "Go on and see if you find anything."

Fifteen minutes later, Donovan walked in with the ladder, only to find Anderson still staring at the ceiling and Lestrade over in the corner talking to Colonel. Sighing, she placed the ladder on the floor and went to go snap Anderson out of it.

"Did Ms. Ordena have any enemies?" Lestrade asked Colonel, who shook his head.

"Not that I know of," the man explained. "I don't see her very often except for when she gardens, and the few times I've talked to her she's been quite friendly. She told me once that she worked at the Island Diner in London, so I don't imagine she made many enemies there."

"Has she lived in here long?" Lestrade continued.

"About a year," Colonel replied. "She moved in last year right around this time of the year, although I was surprised. Most people won't buy this house, because it's so ugly. With all the walls, inside and out, painted this shade of blue-

Their conversation was interrupted as something crashed to the floor behind them, and Donovan screamed. Whirling around, the two stared in awe, taking in the scene. Anderson was on top of the ladder, his hand outstretched to where Ms. Ordena should have still been lying on the ceiling. Instead however, the woman was now lying on her stomach on the ground, only feet away from a shaking Donovan.

"He j-just touched her, and she fell," Donovan stuttered. Colonel stepped past Lestrade and took her pulse, shaking his head.

"Dead, and cold," he announced. "She's been there for at least a day, I would think."

Lestrade looked up again at where Ms. Ordena had been, hoping to find some explanation to her gravity defying death, but only found an empty ceiling. Directing his gaze back to Ms. Ordena, the Detective Inspector held his face in his hands, trying to prevent the migraine he knew was coming.

"Donovan, get the specialists in here and see if they find anything," he spoke. "I'm going to go to the Island Diner and see if anyone there knows anything."

Lestrade was just about to exit when Colonel spoke,

"It's a pity that that Sherlock Holmes character was a fake, this would have been one good mystery for him, don't you think Detective Inspector?"

Stunned by Colonel's statement, Lestrade turned on the man, with acid in his voice.

"What did you say?"

"I said," Colonel repeated, "that if that Sherlock Holmes guy wasn't a phony, this mystery would have been perfect for him. You know he's a fake right, and he kidnapped those kids six months ago along with making up all the crimes, just so he could become famous? You should, the reports that came out said you're the one who arrested him. Or do you actually believe that lunatic Watson and that Sherlock Holmes was real?"

Glaring at Anderson and Donovan and then back to the Colonel again, Lestrade said resolutely before stomping out,

"John Watson is not a lunatic, and neither was Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

The rest of the day at the clinic went uneventfully, fortunately for John. It gave him time to think over what he was going to say to Lestrade and about the mysterious Mary who had visited him earlier. Part of him wanted to call her right away but another part of him was hesitant. John didn't know why, but he liked thinking that the smartest man he ever knew was Sherlock, and he didn't want this woman to change that.

Before John knew it, the clock in his office rang six o'clock, signaling John's shift was over. Slipping out of the office, he went out the back door of the clinic so he didn't have to see anyone. He wanted to go to the flat to change before he went to Stallion's, and he needed to talk to Mrs. Hudson about what to do with Mary. Something about her struck a chord in John, beyond her deductions that greatly resembled Sherlock's own methods, and John couldn't figure out exactly what it was. Maybe Mrs. Hudson would have some advice to give him, if she wasn't still mad that he had denied her the right to take the head out of the fridge that had been there for more than six months.

When John got home, however, Mrs. Hudson was out. She had left a note on the door, saying

_Hello John dear,_

_I've gone out for a bit, won't be back until later. I put the book you ordered upstairs on your chair next to the violin. Didn't know you were interested in murder stories dear!_

Staring at the note, John looked at the door in confusion and then quickly unlocked it, stepping inside warily. He wasn't aware of any book he had ordered, particularly a murder novel. After shutting the door quietly, John creeped up the stairs, poised and ready in case anything happened. All was silent, however, as John entered the flat slowly, surveying it carefully before he stepped inside. Still nothing occurred, and John's eyes focused on the tattered book next to Sherlock's violin, the title of said book reading, _The Fleet Street Murders_. Upon approaching the book, John hesitantly picked it up, expecting the flat to explode any minute.

Nothing happened.

Opening the book, John flipped furiously through it, his adrenaline crashing. There had to be something in this book, something that would tell him about Sherlock. But to John's dismay, there was nothing in the book except for pages, one of which was even torn out! John hurled the book down to the ground as he realized someone must have thrown it away near John's doorstep and Mrs. Hudson had mistaken it for a delivery. His head in his hands, John slowly brought his heart rate down, now thinking himself incredibly stupid for thinking that the book was nothing but a mistake. Life wasn't his battle field anymore, and John cried as he realized that he was just a civilian.

* * *

On the other side of town, Lestrade was sitting at the bar at Stallion's pub, looking at his watch. He had gotten there half an hour early, for the clock read 6:30 pm, but the Detective Inspector didn't mind waiting. This half hour gave him time to think about how he was going to approach John and how he was going to apologize.

"Excuse me sir, is that seat next to you available?"

Lestrade turned, the air catching in his throat as he turned to see a beautiful woman staring at him with a warm but cunning smile. She wore a hat so Lestrade couldn't see her eyes, but the woman was wearing a stunning dress that showed off her amazing body. Clearing his throat, Lestrade spoke,

"Um, well, yeah, I mean it won't be, I mean, you can have it...I'll move," Lestrade looked sheepishly at the woman, who continued to stare at him with her unwavering gaze, making Lestrade stutter even more.

"Are you saving it for someone?" she asked. "Some lucky girl?"

"Oh no, just a friend," Lestrade explained. "I haven't seen him in a long time, and well, um, I was just saving it for him until he shows up."

"He is very lucky to have you as a friend," the woman's voice was somehow familiar to Lestrade, he felt he might have heard it once before, maybe on television?

"Oh, well, thank you," Lestrade replied. "It really is no issue if you want to sit here, I can move down-

"Please," the woman held up a gloved hand. "You're too kind. I'll be fine."

Lestrade watched with wide eyes as the woman went to other side of the pub, put her things down, and then proceeded to go to the bathroom. He wished she would take her hat off so he could see her face and hair, but she kept it on until she was gone from his line of vision. Turning around to face the bar, Lestrade sighed and directed his focus back to his imminent conversation with John. He didn't see the woman return from the bathroom with her hat off, revealing her dark brown hair, pinned up as usual, and her ruthless blue eyes. The Detective Inspector also didn't see a man join her at the table, a man he had seen only a few times before, at crime scenes, always carrying an umbrella, even when it wasn't raining.

"Well," Mycroft Holmes looked at Irene Adler across their small dining table.

"It's nice to see you too, Mr. Holmes," Irene replied, a wry grin on her face.

"You know I'm very busy Irene, and the state of your employment is precarious," Mycroft replied, his monotonous tone wavering a bit on the side of annoyance. "Tell me what you know."

It was then that a waiter placed their orders on the table; a salad for Irene and cake for Mycroft.

"What happened to the diet?" Irene asked skeptically before taking a bite. Rolling his eyes, Mycroft took out a plastic box and put the cake in there for later, still waiting for Irene's reply.

"He's meeting John soon, from what I can tell, around seven," Irene finally stated, continuing her meal. Nodding, Mycroft looked over at the Detective Inspector who was still sitting by himself at the bar.

"You are prepared, of course?" the elder Holmes turned back to Irene.

"I've got a disguise waiting for me in the bathroom," Irene responded after another bite of salad. "I'll be sure to get close enough to hear."

"Very well," Mycroft stood up, careful to avoid Lestrade's line of vision. "Our time together this evening has run out, Ms. Adler, complete your assignment and we will talk about your payment. When their conversation is finished, call me and we will decide where to meet again."

Smiling, Irene nodded and held up her phone that showed the contact number Mycroft given her. With that, she continued eating as she watched Mycroft walk away, umbrella in one hand and cake in the other. It wasn't until the elder Holmes had walked through the door, did Irene's smile vanish, and after glancing around the diner out of habit to make sure no one was watching her, she pulled out another phone, a prepaid device that no one, not even Mycroft, knew about. Texting a number she knew by heart, Irene sent the message and went to the bathroom to get changed.

_John and Lestrade are meeting soon, I'll text you the details later._

When she got back ten minutes later from changing into her disguise, Irene's empty salad bowl had been taken, and both phones were right in her coat pocket, where she had left them. Pulling out the prepaid one, Irene smiled when the screen lit up, saying she had one new text message. Opening the message, she still couldn't prevent her heart beat (after all this time) from jumping just a little as she read,

_Thank you. -SH_

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Thank you to all who followed the first chapter, and than you DMRA for reviewing! Ok so I went a tad over board and added Anderson, Donovan, Mycroft, Irene, and Sherlock, BUT...I couldn't help it :)


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